The Laws of Attraction
by shipping-goggles
Summary: Modern!AU Captain Swan. There's the prospect of finishing his celebratory rum in the peace and quiet afforded to him by this blissfully empty bar. And then there's the blonde perched atop the stool three seats down, nibbling on a pretzel like she's either forgotten she's still eating it or a million miles away. Prequel to Guilty, Your Honor.


Author's Note: Written as part of Captain Swan January Joy on Tumblr, with gratitude to katie-dub there for inviting me to this wonderful fic event in the first place! A few people mentioned how much they'd miss the GYH universe when that story came to a close, and I know there was some question about whether we'd ever see Killian's POV - and so, this prequel was born ;)

However, you do not need to have read GYH to read this fic, and vice versa. If you do have any interest in reading both, though, my suggestion is to start with GYH, because of... spoilers. Hope you like!

* * *

 **The Laws of Attraction**

There's the prospect of finishing his celebratory rum in the peace and quiet afforded to him by this blissfully empty bar. And then there's the blonde perched atop the stool three seats down, nibbling on a pretzel like she's either forgotten she's still eating it or a million miles away.

He hadn't even noticed when she'd walked in – which is a damn near shame, in his opinion, because he's certain it isn't the fit of her jeans giving him the impression of long, shapely legs, even when they're crammed under the counter. But he's not in the habit of openly ogling strangers, especially when they're wont to share a common space with him for any length of time, so that's just about the only thing he can process about her when he looks up, startled by the noise of her dragging the bowl of stale pretzels closer to her end of the bar.

Well, that and a tussle of long blond curls. And eyes so sharp he's almost glad they hadn't met his head-on, or he suspects he might have had an even more difficult time getting that sip of rum down the hatch.

Really, he has no business dealing with pretty strangers at all tonight, or, indeed, feeling relieved that he'd left work wearing his best suit. Going out in honor of a hard-won case has become a rare indulgence in the months since Storybrooke made him partner, and while there's something to be said about David's easy companionship or Ruby's high energy that makes social drinking a consistent source of entertainment, he's not one to pass up an opportunity for quiet solitude, either.

(It's a familiar comfort – one he's never quite gotten out of his system from the days when it'd been the only option. And, luckily for him, the city has at least this one particular bar that's reliably deserted on any given night in the middle of the week.)

So it's inconvenient, then, that he keeps finding his gaze straying over to the only other occupant at the counter, although he really should be trying harder to stop himself. Black leather, bare collarbones tucked under a neckline bent askew. Loose shirt dipping just low enough for a hint of pale cleavage.

He swears she's been chewing on that same pretzel since she stole the entire dish for herself.

"You know they refill them."

She starts, blinking over at him like she's unsure whether he's speaking to her, and he's glad that the relative silence of the bar makes his voice a little more penetrable to her apparent faraway daze. Sure enough, it feels like she's pinned him to his seat the moment her eyes regain focus and meet his – and then flicker downward so quickly, he may not have noticed it had their suspicion not mellowed as he suspects she registers his distance.

Still, they remain narrowed, and he's about to pronounce it a lost cause until the line of her pink lips tilts at the corners.

"I'm aware," she says, and she pops the entire pretzel into her mouth with a relish that has a flicker of heat tingling the back of his neck. In retrospect, maybe that wasn't the best opener, even if she'd somehow understood what he'd meant in the first place.

"Apologies, love." He tries a small smile. "Far be it from me to assume any lack of experience on your part."

She only stares at him for a second, giving him the distinct feeling that he's been placed on the stand, before she tilts her head. "Something tells me you're usually pretty thorough. In your assumptions," she adds on quickly, which has him going from delighted at where her mind seems to be straying (if her disconcerted expression is anything to go by), to inordinately disappointed that she's only just met him and her opinion is already just as far down in the gutter.

"Darling, if I wanted to assume anything of anyone tonight, don't you think I'd be better off trying my luck elsewhere?"

She seems to glance over his shoulder at the only other patron of the bar, who had been napping in a booth last he checked. "I'm not sure if I should be insulted," she says, like she's asking him a question.

"Do you want to be?"

Her mouth opens with what is probably an astute retort, but then, just as quickly, it snaps shut. He thinks he should be pleased at her hesitation, her lips pressing together like she's trying not to concede defeat with any sign of amusement – but by the way the green dances in her eyes, he has to say she's not doing a very good job.

"With lines like those," she says at last, "am I really supposed to believe you're not trying to get lucky right now?"

Her accusing tone aside, it feels like she's just paid him the slightest bit of praise. "Actually," he says lightly, "I believe I already have."

"Is that right?"

"You're still talking to me, aren't you?"

At this, she actually laughs – and he's a lost cause faster than the sound can ripple through him, leaping in time with his heartbeat. "If you're this bad with alcohol," she says with a shake of her head, "I'd hate to see you when you're sober."

"It's just the one, love," he tells her in a valiant attempt to seem serious, nudging the glass in front of him with the lift of a single brow. "It's a weeknight, and it's late. What sort of man do you take me for?"

"Apparently the sort that likes to flirt before even giving out his name."

He grins. "Killian. Jones."

"Emma," she replies, and she reaches over the stools between them to slide her hand into his. It's slight but warm, filling his palm with a tingle he doesn't think has anything to do with the heat, and it feels like she pulls away a little too quickly and much too soon. Her eyes dart down to the empty seats. He has just enough time to wonder if she's thinking, just as he is, of making an effort to continue this conversation without shouting over across half the length of the bar, before she's speaking again. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who drinks a single glass of straight rum for fun, though."

The way she wrinkles her nose is probably a lot more endearing than it should be. "I've never met anyone who goes to a bar and eats pretzels for fun, either."

"Are you offering to buy me a drink?" she snorts.

"I would," he admits, eyeing her soda deliberately, "if I didn't think the way into your heart wasn't necessarily through the most expensive wine on the menu."

"Are you sure it isn't because you're afraid you'll look bad if I outdrink you?"

"If I didn't know any better, love, I'd say it sounds like you're suggesting something highly improper, under the circumstances."

Her pretty mouth twists. "If _I_ didn't know any better, I'd say you look like the kind of guy who doesn't know the meaning of the word _improper_."

"I have no idea what you mean, love," he tells her – and, well, he's neither oblivious nor an idiot. He leans in, smiles widely in the way he knows will coax her eyes downward if he does it just right.

It does. She licks her lips, though he's too distracted to even begin to wonder whether or not she's doing it on purpose.

"It isn't improper if I can handle more than one drink late on a weeknight," she finally says, and he can't even be properly affronted at how precisely her pointed grin hits home. She clears her throat to get the attention of the short bartender, who has thankfully (whether consciously or not) been giving them what little privacy he can offer by lounging on his phone at the end of the counter, orders a glass of red that she very specifically adds to her own tab.

"I hope," he props an elbow on the counter when she turns to face him fully, the challenge glinting in her eyes like a bloody siren's call, "this decision will still feel like a good one come daylight hours, love."

She hums, and the sound travels southward faster than he can take in a breath. "As a matter of fact, I'm getting the feeling it just might."

And, well, she's _delightful_ , this Emma – and he doesn't even know her last name. He doesn't know a single thing about her, actually, because how they manage to talk without touching on a single significant personal detail is beyond his capacity for rational thought, especially as he comes to terms with what he does know.

That she's piercing in more than just her gaze, quick-tongued and thornier than she looks. That, somehow, it's still the easiest thing in the world to quip back the first words that come to mind, time and time again, until he's forgotten all his good sense but for the sight of her biting the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile. That when she does, he feels as though he may have just been punched in the gut; that it's even worse when she laughs harder than she probably means to at his awful impression of her attitude ( _Come on, is that really what Americans sound like to you?_ He'd snorted, suppressing his triumphant elation. _Perhaps you could give me a different phrase to mimic, then. Something like: yes, I'd love to let you buy me another drink_?).

That, despite it all, she still doesn't trust him as far as she can throw him, which is why, he understands, they're speaking like this in the first place. No strings; no mess. She may have finally taken the bar stool next to him, no excuse or explanation for why she'd switched sides on her way back from the restroom, but she'd also downed the refill he'd ended up purchasing after all before she left, so it shouldn't exactly come to a surprise to him that this is all in good fun and nothing else

(It shouldn't be making him this wistful, either, for something he doesn't want to name – and yet, for all the _good fun_ he's had in the time since he left his heart behind in England, the name comes to mind much more quickly than he'd expect.)

He'd barely started his first glass of rum when she'd commandeered the bowl of bar pretzels right along with his attention (and also, maybe, the beginnings of something else). He's halfway through his second by the time she touches him in a way far removed from a friendly handshake in greeting – though, it isn't anything scandalous at all, how her knee knocks against his as she shifts in her seat, for the third time in as many minutes. It might just be the restless flutter of alcohol talking, or maybe the lights have gotten dimmer since he last noticed, but he _swears_ that glow on the fair skin of her cheeks hadn't been there before.

He's even more certain that the way she's watching him now, up through her lashes with the faintest trace of coyness marking her full, pink mouth, is a pretty new thing, too.

"You know," he says in a low voice, one that requires her to lean in to hear him (or so it would seem), "I'm aware we're hard-pressed for space here, but one might think you had suddenly acquired a penchant for clumsiness."

The sleepy booth-dweller aside, Misthaven has gained but three new patrons in the time since she arrived: a middle-aged man minding his own business at the end of the counter, and two older women exchanging excited stories at a table by the front. Emma's smile is one of slow seduction as she shifts even closer, perched on the edge of her stool, and presses her leg against the inside of his thigh, clearly not an accident at all.

"Sorry," she murmurs, eyes gleaming darkly up at him, even as her warmth continues seeping into and up the seam of his trousers until they start feeling just a tad too tight. He works down a swallow but doesn't dare break her gaze. The moment he so much as glances downward, he knows, is the moment he'll lose to the flighty snare of temptation.

"You shouldn't be." One hand wrapped around the edge of the bar under his elbow, he delights in the quiet hitch of her breath as he ducks in even nearer, catches the sweet aroma of mixed perfume and wine on his tongue. "There are quite a few ways I imagine you might be able to make it up to me instead."

And it's just because he's determined not to let his eyes stray that he notices when her own green stare flickers to his mouth; lingers for one long, agonizing second; flits back up, its hard focus wavering.

That's the only reason he has enough time to suck in a quick breath before she seems to square her shoulders, crumples the front of his shirt in her fist, and hauls him forward to press her soft lips to his.

She's warm, firm but gentle, and he doesn't need the velvet coaxing of her mouth to respond in kind, even as his mind goes completely blank but for what it takes to _feel_. The way she shivers under his touch as his fingers brush her jaw, holding her in place. Her sigh at the smooth slide of his tongue against hers, and how her lips part to let him taste her properly, thoroughly, drawing him into the kiss like he's ready to drown. She responds with an eager hunger that jolts through every nerve ending in his body, throbs a dull, frantic staccato through his veins until his blood feels saturated with the heat of her, until his muscles tense with a base desire born distinctly below the belt.

Her mouth is bliss, and he wastes no time in drinking her up – catching her top lip with both of his, dragging a ruined noise out of her mouth, and, regretfully, breaking the kiss altogether.

 _Bloody hell_.

A shudder jolts down his spine at the abrupt loss of contact, and then at the warm brush of her labored breathing, quiet pants in time with the pounding of his heart. When he opens his eyes, she's already considering him, her gaze clouded not with inattention, now, but for a very different reason. It feels like the same one that prickles with _wanting_ just beneath his skin.

"Take me home?" Her whisper is a delicate sound that raises gooseflesh across his skin. He realizes, belatedly, that she's neglected to let go of his collar, both hands buried in his shirt now, and that he's got his free one halfway up the length of her thigh without even having remembered moving in the first place.

He also realizes: he has absolutely no intention of letting go.

"Lucky indeed," he murmurs, and a weak laugh escapes her as she pries her fingers from his tie, wraps them around his to drag him right off of his stool.

(Unless he's mistaken, it doesn't seem like she's quite ready to let go, either.)

* * *

For the second time tonight, his grip fumbles, and he nearly drops his keys. The breathy chuckle in his ear is just one reason why.

"What were the words you used?" she murmurs. She has but a single hand light on his hip, but the heat of it burrows through his suit jacket all the same. " _Penchant for clumsiness_?"

To his relief, the key finally slides home. "If it's a demonstration of dexterity you'd like, darling," he twists the door open for her, cocking an eyebrow as she passes him with a grin, "I'd be more than happy to comply."

"That seems like it could be pretty fun for the both of us," she admits. "I think—" The rest of her response is cut off the moment she crosses the threshold of his apartment, which, in his book, is more than enough in the interest of public decency. Before the door has even swung fully shut behind him, he's fitting his hands against the curve of her jaw and pinning her back against the wall, mouth on hers like it's becoming a fast addiction. Her head falls back, and the delicious sound of her pleased sigh vibrates through him faster than his blood can spike with the feeling of her palms skimming up his chest, over his shoulders, and into his hair.

It nearly drives him mad, how wonderfully she fits against him: the fine tangle of her curls around his fingers, the soft press of her breasts, her waist, her lips.

She can probably feel just how mad it's making him, too – had probably felt it, in fact, all the way home from the bar, if her not-so-innocently wandering hands had been as thorough as they'd felt.

Her leg curving behind his calf, she pushes her hips against his with an accuracy that has him clenching his teeth, lust sparking white-hot behind his eyelids as he chokes out a groan. The hum of her laughter breaks the kiss, and she tugs at his jacket with amused impatience.

"You really know how to make a girl work for it, don't you?" He shrugs the offending article of clothing off to the ground, to hell with proper formalwear care right now, and her nimble fingers start working on the top of his waistcoat. "How many goddamn pieces is this suit?"

There's the longer story – the truth – of how he'd needed to dress to impress in court today, but that's probably too much information for her, as it is. And yet, he nearly bites his tongue in an effort to keep the words from slipping out of his mouth.

(Though, that could also simply be due to how she abandons the line of buttons halfway down, starts tugging the tuck of his shirt from his trousers, instead.)

"I imagine," he murmurs, his lips brushing a trail backwards across her cheek, "it might be an enjoyable exercise for you to find out." He struggles with her own jacket, tight around her shoulders until she finally relents; the second it hits the floor, her hand is back on his belt, moving with a swiftness that almost brings him to his knees. But instead, he ducks his head, half to hide his expression, half to inhale the noise that escapes the long column of her throat when he kisses her there. The scent of her shampoo is a subtle sweetness on his nose as it grazes her skin, but it nearly overwhelms him all the same.

Another thing that nearly overwhelms him: the jolt of pleasure that lurches through his body at the feeling of her hand slipping into the front of his trousers, the flat of her palm cupping him through his undergarments without even the decency of preamble.

He nearly chokes, his voice unrecognizable: "Bad form, love." As much as he's loathe to, he snatches her slender wrist in his hand, pulls away just enough that she's forced to open her eyes. Her smile is unapologetic, dark and dangerous. "You'd have a man in his foyer before he gets the chance to show you the rest of his home?"

Something flickers in her expression – but it vanishes long before he can make out what it is. "You wouldn't have me against the wall?" she asks, with a false sweetness that nearly draws a laugh from his throat.

"I'd have you anywhere, darling," he says. He leans back in, his free hand sliding down her hip with clear intent, and he feels her own unsnared fingers hook into the opening of his tie. "But if you wanted to sacrifice comfort for efficiency, we may as well have stayed at the bar."

Restroom sex isn't the worst on his list of public offenses (from days long past, he'll admit), but it seems like the dirtiest idea in the world when the white line of her teeth sinks into her bottom lip. "Talk about a missed opportunity."

"You're telling me." He tastes her grin on his tongue when he kisses her, his mouth curving in turn, despite himself, and before she can protest further, he hefts her against the wall and bends to catch the space behind her knees, urging her legs to wrap around his waist.

" _Fuck_." Sure enough, the moment he hoists her up properly, the way she fits around him leaves nothing to the imagination, and if she couldn't before, there isn't a doubt in his mind her gasp is born of feeling him hard between her thighs now. Despite the truth in his earlier words (because _gods_ yes, he loves the idea of hooking her leg over his shoulder right here in his entryway, or against a stall door back at the bar restroom, or even in the alley behind Misthaven, modesty be damned), he's not willing to waste what he suspects is his one shot with this glorious woman by ending the night anywhere but inside her.

Her elbows curve around his neck as he begins to walk, and his hands find his way under her shirt, lightly stroking the arch of her back. She takes the time to tug it over her head altogether before bending her head to kiss him so thoroughly, he doesn't have time to stumble at the sight of all that marvelous skin, pale against a glimpse of light-colored undergarments. Her soft hair falling in a curtain around his face, he makes it to his bedroom in record time, much faster than he suspects is safe while trying to balance their combined weight, for the chance to see it again.

It's white, the lace encasing her torso (though only just). She practically glows in the darkness, against the spread of his bedsheets, but the color of her eyes glinting up at him – well, it tells a slightly different story.

"Come on," she murmurs, flicking open the button of her jeans, looking positively _obscene_ sprawled out like that, where he'd deposited her with no small care. "You're falling behind."

He suppresses a chuckle. "And whose fault is that, exactly?"

The satisfaction of her eye-roll is lost on him in favor of each new inch of bare skin (and, heavens help him, a matching scrap of white lace) she reveals as she kicks off her boots, peels her pants down to follow them on the ground. He's surprised he even makes it as far as his shirt, honestly, his fingers fumbling over the buttons, the knot of his tie, before he's abandoning the effort altogether and crawling up his bed to meet her, only halfway undressed.

She's hot under his palms, her kiss-bruised mouth opening with what he thinks might be a complaint, but all that comes out is a sigh when he slips his tongue into her mouth.

"You're so bad at this," she mutters against his lips, after several long, wonderful moments. By the way she's shoving his trousers off of his hips with an efficiency she owes to her previous head start, he doesn't think he could be offended if he tried, though it is a tad uncomfortable realizing just how tightly his remaining article of clothing currently fits.

The smooth slide of skin on skin, on the other hand – that's not uncomfortable at all.

"You require proof for everything, don't you?" His eyes almost roll into the back of his head when her hands finally roam the expanse of his chest, her bare toes skimming the backs of his calves as he leans over her slender frame, letting his mouth hover just above hers. She licks her lips, and he groans at the feeling of her nails scratching lightly across his skin.

"Is that so terrible?"

Her fingers travel lower, skimming the line of hair below his navel. "No," he breathes. "No, it's not. But I do hope you know what you're getting yourself into, darling."

"Why don't you show me?" Her smirk gleams in the darkness, and he inhales sharply as she toys with the waistband of his boxers, but she only just grazes him with her other hand before he shifts away.

" _That's_ not showing you."

"Isn't it?"

Every inch of him, coiled tight and hot with desire, _really_ wishes it was, but he's a gentleman first and foremost. Instead of gracing her with a verbal response, he dips his mouth into her shoulder, prompting a sound that feels suspiciously like a laugh but also, gratifyingly, like a gasp, works his way downward with his lips until he's – finally – sliding his hand under her back. The clasp comes undone with just the barest coaxing, and then the soft weight of her breasts fill his palms at last.

" _Oh_ ," she sighs, long and slow. When he draws her into his mouth, she's sweet on his tongue, nipples drawn tight, chest swelling with each heavy breath, and the way she writhes against him urges him downward still in a wet trail across her stomach. He presses a kiss to the hollow of her waist.

"Dexterity, wasn't it?" She casts him a dazed look, and he has to work down a swallow at the sight of her hair strewn across his pillows before he speaks again. "That was the first thing you wanted of me?"

Her answering smile is a lazy thing of pure radiance. Hooking his fingers into the lace at her hips, despite how much concentration it takes to suppress the raw lust already pumping through his blood, he drags the last shred of clothing off of her body. Before he can so much as begin to take in the sight of her fully flushed and naked, however – though he doesn't know if any amount of time would be enough to regain his breath, much less show the full extent of his appreciation – he's startled by the feeling of her ankle nudging his thigh.

"Fair play," she murmurs. Biting down a grin, he discards the last of his own undergarments with a relief that probably shouldn't be this profound, but, as it is, he's never been gladder to be free of it in his life when he's been strained to get out of it since she first laid a hand on him, when the prospect of her gaze on him has every other muscle in his body tensing with need. His fingers drag up the smooth skin of her thigh, and her legs twitch open in anticipation as he makes his way back up to kiss her.

Her eyes flutter shut, her back arching the second his thumb meets warm, wet flesh. Propped up on an elbow next to her head, he takes his time, loses himself in the twin allures of her mouth and her heat, teasing and sliding and rubbing until she doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands – one curled into his hair to keep him in place, the other grasping at his shoulder, his neck, down to where his cock is pressed hard against her hip. His fingers stumble, and she moans. Maybe she knows exactly what she's doing, after all.

When she's finally wound up so tight, he can practically feel that spot at the apex of her thighs, swollen and slippery with his task, throb her desperation in a painful rhythm he knows all too well, he slows down, feels her tremble as she breaks the kiss.

"I need you," she whispers against the corner of his mouth, like the best kind of music to his ears. "I need you. Please." He doesn't need to be told twice. He reaches for the nightstand drawer behind her, although his valiant attempt at (completely, undeniably grateful) acquiescence is all but foiled when she uses that opportunity to slide her hand between them, wrapping her clever fingers around the thrust of his erection before he can plead mercy.

"Bloody _hell_." The condom packet nearly drops from his grasp. Preoccupied with trying to still her before she can do any permanent damage, he tears it open using his teeth instead, but there's extra care that needs to be taken in rolling it on – and, indeed, in climbing back into position, lining himself up properly.

It's only then that he forces himself to wait.

To hover over her, the heat that burns in her gaze prickling gooseflesh down his spine along the path of her nails.

To give himself the space of one indulgent second to take it in – the darkness of her cheeks, her stare, her full, parted lips – before he's sinking down into her in a long, smooth motion, filling her with a tightness that _burns_.

" _Shit_." Her lashes flutter as her eyes rolls back into her head, and her grip digs into the muscles in his back, the ones that squeeze with the pleasure jolting through every fiber in his body. Embarrassingly enough, that's almost all it takes for him to break altogether.

"I beg to differ, love," he only just manages, though he hasn't an inkling how. He steels himself before pulling out, sliding in again, deep and slow, savoring the perfect wet fit of her quim. "I'm not one to exaggerate, but I'd lean more towards _positively exquisite_." A noise escapes her, one he think is born of agreement, and he spends far too much time in the moment following wondering about her stance on dirty talk, at least as best he can while he's wrought so mentally incoherent.

"Come on," she urges him, breathlessly, when it seems the experimental stretch becomes too much to bear. She digs her heels into the small of his back, and it takes him in deeper to the point that he has no choice but to comply. He begins to move – precise, deliberate thrusts that tear at the edges of his self-control. Burying his face into her neck as he buries himself inside her, over and over and over, his mouth meets damp, hot skin, and, in the interest of allowing her to chase her pleasure first, he does whatever he needs to distract himself from the tight vice of her sex.

Sucks a bruise into her pulse point, which flickers furiously against his lips. Sinks his teeth into her shoulder and tastes the salt of her sweat on his tongue. She clenches around him, so slick and tight and _wonderful_ , it takes nearly everything he has to keep the feverish tautness of release at bay, to let it build, higher and higher, coiling inward with a heat that is becoming unbearably strained. He just reaches the point where he thinks he might lose his mind if everything doesn't shatter right bloody fucking _now_ – but then she's tensing, walls aflutter, head falling back with a gasp, and he _knows_ she's there, one last painful thrust to push her over the edge of breaking.

He also knows the blazing expression of rapture on her face when she comes, hard and fast, is going to be scorched into his memory for a long, long time, even as everything dissolves into nothing, and all that exists is but the pulsing delight of his own relief, the blossom of mingled heat and bliss coaxed through his body by the pleasure of hers.

(The unintelligible groan that leaves his mouth at the peak of his desperation – he'd deny it until his dying day, but it sounds one hell of a lot like her name.

 _Emma_.)

In the breathless, incoherent moments after, he can only brace himself against the sheets around her head, trying to regain his senses enough to keep from collapsing on top of her. When he traces the flush of her skin all the way to its source, and higher still, something in his chest swells when he realizes that she's watching him, too, the tiniest hint of a sated smile on the edges of her darkened mouth.

At least, for all the jabs thrown today, they're on the same page on that front.

He pulls out carefully, but, sorely lacking the energy to haul himself to the bathroom right this second, he drops to the cool relief of the bedspead beside her, unable to bring himself to care about the sweat beginning to dry on his skin. Rolling her shoulders, she seems to stretch in one long, indecently languid motion, before she tilts her head in his direction, the green in her gaze glittering dimly in the faint light from the windows.

The words are out of his mouth before he can help it – though they're quiet all the same, unwilling to disturb the lingering haze of their release: "Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't know the meaning of _improper_."

He isn't sure if it's just because she's drained, but her delicate snort of a chuckle is a pleasant surprise. "Coming from you," she mutters, the sheets rustling as she turns on her side, "that almost sounds like a compliment."

"Truthfully, love, I'm not convinced you meant it as an insult either."

"Hmm. Glad to hear you took it in stride."

Despite the slow creep of heaviness stealing its way into his bones, his mouth twitches into a smile. "That doesn't sound very convincing either."

"Good." It's but a mumble, but he feels it spark a warmth through his system anyway. Her pillow crinkles under her head. "Because I didn't mean it."

"Is that right?"

She hums. "Actually, I…"

Her voice falls silent.

It takes him longer than it should to comprehend that his eyes have slid shut without his permission, so it's another few seconds still before he's able to blink the shadows out of his vision, bleary and disoriented as to why she's trailed off so suddenly. But, he soon realizes, there's only one plausible reason to it.

Inches away, nestled in a tangle of gold curls on top of the pillow opposite – she's asleep.

He hesitates. Her face dipping into the pillowcase, her bare shoulder shifting almost imperceptibly with her breath, she's well and truly completely unconscious, though she's radiant all the same for being out like a lightbulb. Exhausted as he is, his mind can only dully conjure the most naïve of simple questions.

 _Had she meant to stay the night?_

And then, perhaps more importantly: _Should I care so much at all?_

The answer doesn't come to him no matter how long he lies there, staring through the darkness, his heartbeat slowing in time with the sound of her quiet breathing, nor does it come when he finally hauls himself out of bed and into the bathroom to clean himself up (the time on his bedside table reads just after two o'clock, and he knows he's going to have a rough morning come the blaring of his alarm). In fact, the closest thing he has to a response only just flickers through his mind on his return, in the split second it takes to register her still sound asleep, curled on her side, crumpling the mussed duvet beneath her bare form.

He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, casting a glance at her over his shoulder. There's an errant curl that's fallen across her cheek, and, in a moment of what must be insanity, his hand twitches with the urge to move it out of her face. But he catches himself, unsure of how she'd take to that if she were awake. Instead, careful not to shift her, he loosens the sheets from under her until he can drag them up to cover her shoulder, then slips into the other side of the bed with a quiet groan of the mattress, leaving a respectable space between them as he settles down. Despite her presence (or perhaps because of it, her quiet slumber a remarkably calming influence on his nerves), the call of post-sex gratification lures his body into a mindless state of ease with a prowess he should probably be thankful for.

And yet, the urge to nudge closer into her warmth, to fall asleep beside her proper, chases him into the dark still, until the last thought he has before he falls asleep is, inappropriately, of second rounds – and, indeed, second chances.

* * *

She's gone before he wakes.

He's barely conscious when his hand curls into warm sheets, his nose filling with a subtle sweetness that seems out of place, even to his groggy mind. It's the unfamiliarity of it, he has just enough mental energy to suspect, that rouses him where his alarm fails. Cracking open one eye, he squints into the soft daylight streaming in through the curtains, and the moment his gaze falls on the disheveled sheets beside him, the dip in the pillow on the other side of the bed, the reality of the previous night – in all of its glorious detail, to the delight of the ache already tightening in his groin – jolts through his mind in a flash.

 _Emma_.

He shouldn't be surprised – and yet. His temples squeezing with the punishment of sleep deprivation, he scrubs a hand over his face, props himself up on an elbow (every muscle in his body twinges just from that motion alone) to get a better look around. Sure enough, a quick scan of the room is enough to confirm that her clothes are gone, even if traces of her remain in the spot she'd occupied last night, and he only realizes he's staring unthinkingly at that same spot, a knot forming in his stomach he doesn't think has anything to do with overexertion, when the snooze bell of his alarm startles him back into awareness.

He twists to jab the _off_ button with less force than he'd normally be inclined to use. Instead of sitting up, though, he lets that same tired energy drag him back down into his pillow, flopping down with a sharp, exasperated huff and reaching up to shield his eyes with his arms – from the light, sure, but also from the impulsive thought of what that light might look like woven through mussed blond curls. It's far, far too early to be dealing with hollow disappointment, he thinks, especially when it has no business being anywhere near the night he's just had, shared with a woman whose intentions he'd been aware of from the start. It's all in the name of the game, and it's not her fault he'd begun to wonder, halfway through, how it'd feel to start playing a different one.

He knows that if he were to reach back over to the other side of the bed, the lingering heat of her slumber would be there still.

His jaw clenches, and he gives himself a rough mental shake, trying to separate the image of her sleepy smile from the space behind his eyelids. If his bedside clock wasn't proof enough, his internal alarm is bristling with a similar warning of the late hour, and he's all too aware he doesn't have the time to dwell on _could-bes_ , or _what-ifs_ , or any other memories that are likely to tempt his hand right now, so to speak. He'd had to reschedule his preliminary meetings with his Crocodile case clients for earlier this morning, thanks to the transfer Regina told him she'd be bringing in, which means he's already in for a rough commute. All of this dithering is only guaranteed to make it that much worse.

He takes a deep breath in an effort to pull himself together, to shove down anything that may have overstayed its welcome from the wonder that was last night. It really was good fun, and not just in the sex – has he ever met anyone as amusingly sharp-tongued in his life? – but it's over, and it's time for him to face the facts: she was but a flash of lightning in his life, brilliant, blinding, and impermanent. He doesn't think he'll ever see her again.

That is, until Emma Swan walks into his office only a handful of hours later, on the heels of his managing partner, in the very same spot he _swears_ he's just heard her say his brand new associate is supposed to reside.

His mind goes blank but for the piercing green of her wide, stunned eyes.

 _Bloody hell._


End file.
